


remember me love, when i'm reborn.

by billielurked



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Disabled Character, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, from julian's pov bc i feel like that's very very rare!, let julian b loved gently, sign language exists in every universe thanks, slight mention of violence and nightmares in the start!, the apprentice is for the most part nonverbal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billielurked/pseuds/billielurked
Summary: They brush, breathe and whisper half-spoken endearments, fumbling in the darkness to touch as much as they possibly can. Were he able, Julian would like nothing more than to sink into him, to melt into his chest and stay there well past daylight.





	remember me love, when i'm reborn.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still super new to writing romance so like. go easy on me! anyways heres some gentle love bc i feel like julian isn't allowed to be cared about softly very often. enjoy my apprentice samson, who is selectively nonverbal, as it is physically and mentally difficult for him to communicate verbally. sign language is the best. i understand most arcana fics are first person and almost always from the apprentice's point of view but im a rebel what can i say
> 
> anyways have some of that good "julian learning how to accept love without toxicity or violence" juice !

In the dead of night, all things which bring one joy or calm in the daylight become heavier to bear. They darken, grow solemn, weigh down more powerfully than the thickest of winter blankets. The sound of the rain trickling against the window can grow stifling, the air - thick with the smell of petrichor - can suffocate. The hands of a lover, only inches away, may seem distant and unreachable, far across some vast expanse. The tranquility and repose of sleep can be so brutally interrupted by none other than one’s own mind.

And such it is that Julian thrashes in the throes of his most brutal of nightmares. Another horrific sight, another round of his mind conjuring up reasons and manners for and in which he may have killed the Count. Of course, the final strike was fire, unnatural fire, but the mind was savagely creative in that way that it drew up alternatives. The vengeful Dr Devorak himself would feel his fingertips wrapped tight round the hilt of the blade, sheathed swiftly through Lucio’s blond brow. He would feel the blood sizzle and hiss as it dripped down his arms, hot and molten, covering him – the room flooded too quickly to flee his own crime, his sickening deed his very own undoing. He would vividly witness the sawing of the Count’s head, the dull finality of the thud with which it struck the ground. He would feel his fingertips tremble as they throttled Lucio, pressing all remaining life from he who lay below him.

“Ilya!”

Just so quickly, he is back again. He is Julian again, unsure, blearily begging forgiveness for a crime which he cannot remember, nor prove his own guilt for. And from whom does he beg it? The man he supposedly hated with such an intensity that he could not resist killing him?

Maybe it was himself from whom he begged forgiveness. 

“Ilya. Love, my love.”

There he is. His Samson, one hand curled beneath to cradle Julian’s head and guard from the hard floor he’d nearly struck in his thrashing. The apprentice is tender, his embrace enveloping him from all sides, neither hesitant nor distant. “I’m sorry,” Julian stutters, but is cut off by a gentle, dark palm upon his forehead. Testing for fever or brushing away his wild curls; he did not know, did not have the energy to guess, only to lean into the touch before groaning, slowly pulling himself back up onto the bed. Samson brushes through his hair once he is settled with a dreamlike, habitual softness. He does not inquire what the dream was of. He knows it would be cruel to force pain to the forefront where it is not welcome. One last time, near delirious, he mumbles, “I’m very sorry.”

Samson’s hands are free now, free to use the simple ease of his hands to communicate rather than to strain to use his voice. He signs; “Whatever for?”

“Waking you.”

“What makes you think I don’t like waking to your face?”

A blush, at that, eyes averted. “I—most don’t like being awoken by another’s night terrors.”

Samson gentles, leans in closer, crouched as he is over his lover, rumpled blankets draped across them. His eyes, dark as night, glimmer and shine in the reflections of the trinkets that dangle over his bed. “I don’t yearn to be awoken by your pain. I would prefer you peaceful- happy, but I will take you anyway I can get you.” A pause, eyes drawn down as their hands curl together, trembling. His voice is very quiet. “Julian?”

“….Y—Yes, darling?”

He draws back, sitting up against the pillows to speak within full view of him. “Will you talk with me? I couldn’t sleep, even before you woke up.” And he can see it, now. Concern wrinkles the doctor’s brow—here he was, wallowing, when his lover was in pain, too. His hands fly to Samson’s face, tracing his wide, handsome nose, his stout brow, his square jaw, the other hand resting upon the crook of his neck, curled in comfort.

“Of course…I am completely at your service.” A rattling breath as he shakes off the nightmare, forcibly wiping the sight of blood from his mind. Then his face takes on a more dashing smirk. “Any kind of service.”

“Scoundrel,” The apprentice scoffs, rolling back onto his side, dragging Julian along with him. A yelp as he finds himself tossed over, pressed above Samson’s chest this time, a laugh torn from his tired lungs. They lay in laughter for a moment. It subsides- following a pause, Samson nudges him to pay attention. “You never told me why you became a Doctor.”

“Why not?” He whispers, grinning devilishly. Shying from the question.

“Blood, gore, disease, grief… all sorts of nasty things.” Julian shrugs. To be quite honest, he didn’t think of those with such squeamishness as some. They were parts of life, parts of death, things to predict and pursue and prevent. “There is a—a system to it all. A natural order. It’s all based on science, hard fact, tangible things. You can touch it, feel it, you can fix it. It makes sense to me.”  
Samson looks interested. Julian hopes his distaste for magic isn’t perceived as anything negative towards the wielder of it himself.

“Medicine, for me, was like a code to be unraveled, a mystery. Immensely frustrating, but you know, nothing too challenging for a genius like myself-” He ducks to avoid the gentle swat sent his way- “It’s all—it’s all logic. Or, it should be. I found out how very little is unsolvable, and even less unbearable.” This seems to make sense to Samson, who nods, calm and cool, understanding. Slim fingers brush across his brow, a flash of pale against his own deep, umber skin, shining in the dim light which glanced through the windows. The doctor’s brow then furrows, fingers still brushing gently over his lover’s jaw. “And you? Why..why do you find yourself drawn to magic?”

And there it is. The flicker of frightened regret- he recalls Samson’s memory, or deep and striking lack of such, and hurries to retract his question. To no avail, however, the apprentice shaking his head as he seemingly delves hesitantly into the murky waters of his own history. A pang of pain flashes over his features, so quickly hidden as it came, but still noticeable to Julian, who finds himself growing rapidly attuned the smallest of details pertaining to the other.

There’s still much he does not know. He knows years are missing- a whole life gone, blank. He knows he awoke unable to do anything at all without help, unable, even, to speak. It is only with great effort that he can voice anything at all. Julian stutters. “Y- you don’t have to answer if it hurts. I don’t want to hurt you. Please.” He pleads, because he knows Samson will not listen. He may be of a somber and quiet disposition, but this was not an indication of any meekness within him- no, he was a determined man, with a deep curiosity for all things including his self.

“I don’t remember why.” A beat. He breathes and settles back, setting into a series of complicated gestures. “Magic, just as medicine does for you, makes sense to me. I do not see the world as such an organized thing, capable of being…solved. I don’t think you can go the same way twice and come each time to the same conclusion.” He looks so confident as he speaks, gestured signs made broad and direct.

“You can navigate anything, with the right amount of understanding, and that means understanding just how much you do not understand, too. You have to respect that. I see magic not as something intangible and fantastical, but as something very real, very solid. You can’t control or wield it like a club; it’s more like water, flowing, moving, unpredictable, but you just have to learn where it’s going, what it likes to do. It can evaporate, it can trickle, it can dry away. One must simply work around it, and work with it. I think that’s why I was drawn to it, it must be why, in addition to my…natural affinity for it. I cannot see myself doing anything else. I use my magic to explore, and to help other people.”

Julian is captivated.

Samson’s confidence breaks, and he looks quite frazzled, laughing. “I’m speaking nonsense, aren’t I?” He covers his face, embarrassed.

Julian rushes to reassure him, red hair shaking vigorously. “No! No, n-not at all, Samson, you’re making plenty of sense. I may not understand how it all works, I may have my doubts, but you’ve never failed to awe me. You may be what changes my mind. What has changed my mind. Quit covering your face, come now-you wouldn’t want to miss out on this enchanting view you’ve got-”  
And together, they dive into a fit of wild laughter, the subject of the conversation winding down into nothing but silly delight. Any attempt to collect himself into something dashing and, dare he say rowdy, is quickly scattered to the wind when Samson kisses him. 

Their momentary wildness is gone in an instant. There is nothing in it but gentleness, so light and chaste and soft that Julian thinks he might un-tether and float away. Never before has he been loved so tenderly. Oh, he has been loved before, but always like a ship at wreck, baying against the onslaught, the crashing, the drowning. They brush, breathe and whisper half-spoken endearments, fumbling in the darkness to touch as much as they possibly can. Were he able, Julian would like nothing more than to sink into him, to melt into his chest and stay there well past daylight.

“Your hands,” Samson says, taking the marked limb in question between his own, smiling. He lets go only to sign further. “Your gloves are handsome, of course, but no comparison to the real you.”

“The mark is…” _Ugly. It's so ugly._

“Part of you.” 

Julian scoffs. He must resist the urge to pull the hand back, to clutch it to his chest and hide it. It still stings, sometimes, a phantom pain, a memory. Half-gone. Scattered. But he does no such thing; only draws it up to pull his Samson in, to tug him close, eye to eye, nearly nose to nose. He’s awestruck, still, that someone like this could love him. Someone steadfast, brave and bold but ever so gentle, ever so slow, methodical, caring.

There’s no part of him that is not hopelessly in love.

There’s no part of him that isn’t terrified.  
He stares at his Samson, his Apprentice. This man, seemingly fallen from the sky to abruptly throw his life into a new wave of welcomed chaos. This gentle, peaceful man, who gardened in the afternoons and made him tea, who spoke to the townspeople in hushed whispers despite the strain if only to communicate and to make them feel welcome. Who he had witnessed playing with children in the evenings as they ran about, his hulking broad-shouldered form throwing them joyfully into the air, his ringing laugh echoing out into the hushed din of eve. How had he found him in that shameful, drunken state and not felt disgusted? How did he not reject him just as he himself had been rejected? Why didn't he? Why didn't he just leave him there in that bar? 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Julian glances away.

Samson gives him a _look._ He resists the urge to hide his hands, to pull his gloves back on, to hide- 

"I'm just glad I didn't lose you. Or- or- push you away. I mean, I certainly did push you away, but you came back. You always seem to come to my rescue and I've done nothing at all to deserve it. You give me nothing but kindness and I've shown you nothing but flightiness and cynicism, distrust, avoidance.." His own insight takes him aback. It seems to shock Samson as well. He stutters and stumbles through his words, then pushes forward in his embarrassment, a flustered rush of admission pouring from him. "I just don't think I've done anything good. I may not have killed the Count, though sometimes I do believe I must have- I've done something terrible. I have. I'm quite guilty, you see, of many things. But you never ask why, you never accuse me or lay blame where it would be so easy. You've lain yourself in the line of fire for me and me alone. It would be so easy to just leave, to turn me in, to move on, and I couldn't blame you in the least for doing it. I may even thank you."

Samson seems suspended in thought. Then his hands come up to sign slowly and deliberately. "Is that what you want?" 

He swallows, then shakes his auburn head, distress seeping through him at the mere thought of it. "No." 

"Good. I don't want you thinking those things about yourself. Or thinking I would treat you like that. You are good enough. We are good together. I'm glad I didn't lose _you."_ Samson seems to be thinking quite deeply about something, his brow furrowed in frustration over the fact that he would say something like that. _"Now_ what are you thinking about?"

“.....My mind is usually on you.”

 _Pah,_ he vocalizes. "Prove it.”

Julian coughs, taken aback. His face is going red, he just knows it, his ears growing hot- the apprentice always knows how to distract him from his sorrow and fluster him instead. Samson straightens his back alluringly, to his full height. He is broad and strong and heavy. Julian goes dry in the mouth - swallows. “Sam,” he utters, then ever so carefully pulls himself to sit straighter, tugging him tighter against his hips, their faces inching closer and closer. He slips his hands into his beloved magician’s shirt; their mouths uttering one another’s names, lips hurrying together again and again. Neither has much of anything, but they will give it all to one another.

“If you- if you want me stop, or need to say something, tap me thrice. So I can see.”

“Okay,” Samson signs, nodding. “You too.”

He is still awestruck that their togetherness is so tender- Julian has had many intimate experiences, but so very few have so explicitly excluded any kind of pain or aggression. Too often they were quick and sweaty, hair-pulling, tugging, hitting, harsh words gasped out that stung for days, sharper than any hand laid so carelessly against him. And he had once thought that was perfectly fine. To be degraded. To be hurt. He had even convinced himself that was all he wanted. It felt good to address consent, and to realize that Samson truly did not wish to hurt him, not even in the context of pleasure. He smiles.

And then he’s moving, sliding the nightshirt up over his shoulders, slipping his own off as well. His movements are slow and reverent, brushing up over the muscles of his chest, the stout flesh of his hips, his stomach, the dip of his collarbone. Samson shudders beneath his touch, leaning in closer, breath tickling his cheek; Julian leans forward to trail kisses down his jaw, to the column of his throat, to his collarbone. He winds down further, his hands trembling in anticipation, anxious, along his sides and back. Their lips rush to one another, tongues lingering against one another, teeth worrying bites and sighs intermingling. 

“Closer,” Excitement swells in his chest. “Closer, now, love.”

Samson puts his hands on the dip of his side in return, touch firm. Anchored. He’s so reassuring. So calm. Sighs, pressing along Julian’s plane of lean muscle, chuckling as he flexes in surprise, huffing, tickled by the touch. Their lips rush to one another, names traded, teeth worrying bites and sighs intermingling. Samson’s fingertips splay across the part of Julian’s waist which once held the repossessed eel bite; he touches as if to check the flesh for a mark. He finds none. He must think himself silly for it, but Julian can still see the relief wash over him. A pause. Sam links back to quietly gesture.

“I’m glad you are safe.” 

“Whenever am I not?”

“…Every day.” 

Julian feels his face grow more earnest, head shaking. He feels flustered with the knowledge of just how sincerely he worries for him- him, of all people, this guilt stricken man with nothing to offer. He doesn’t want his lover to worry over him at all times, to fear for his life with every breath, expecting it to be the last. No, that isn’t right. He settles to take the apprentice’s hand in his own, press it to his own cheek, then slides it to his chest- his heart pounds. The beat is steady and firm. Constant. 

“I am safe. I’m- I’m here. With you. Nothing can take this away. Nothing will take us away from one another. I won’t let go of you ever again if it’s not what you want. You have me.” 

“Show me.” 

So he does. He holds him closer, hands curling up to caress his back, to brush and fumble, to cradle his head and bring him into another kiss. It’s a desperate, quiet attempt to love him deeper, to pull him into himself, flush and close. Not to be taken away. Not to be interrupted.

This time their love will not be fleeting. It will not be temporary. Nothing can take this away.

**Author's Note:**

> "I couldn't utter my love when it counted  
> I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted  
> Ah, but I'm singing like a bird, 'bout it now.
> 
> Driving alone, following your form  
> Hung like the pelt of some prey you had worn
> 
> I fled to the city with so much discounted  
> Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted  
> Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now
> 
> I was hatched by your warmth  
> And I was transformed
> 
> Remember me love, when I'm reborn  
> As a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn."  
> \- Shrike, Hozier


End file.
